Three Bows To Die And One Secret To Live

I walked out on my own wedding day, frantic. I’d just gotten the call: my mother had been in a terrible car accident. But when I reached the hospital, she was fine. Unscathed. And my bank account had an extra ten million dollars—a deposit from my soon-to-be father-in-law. Camilla Blackwood dragged me back to her Hamptons estate, her manicured fingers pinching my chin, her laugh a cold, brittle thing. “Ten million is what it cost to buy off my little traitor, then?” From that night on, she brought different men home, night after night. I was a captive in the guest suite, forced to listen to the sounds of her retribution echoing through the wall. It lasted for three years. Until I found myself retching into the porcelain, a medical report confirming what my gut already knew: a terminal diagnosis. I watched the news from the bathroom floor—a live feed of Camilla on her private island, celebrating the birthday of A-list actor Ryan Foster, with drones spelling out a giant heart in the night sky. I steadied myself against the vanity and called her. “I want a divorce,” I rasped. Her reply was immediate and sharp. “Fine. But first, you pay back that ten million dollars. With interest.”

1 I gripped the phone so tightly my knuckles went white, a heavy silence settling in. “Well, Jasper?” Camilla’s voice crackled, impatience barely veiled. “Do you have the ten million ready?” “Oh, Cam, is this your ‘husband’?” A man’s light, mocking voice cut through. “The guy who checks his pockets for fifty bucks before he buys coffee? Where’s he going to find ten million?” Camilla’s tone was pure, cutting mockery. “Hear that? No money, no divorce. You’re stuck, Jasper.” Her words were like shards of ice, shattering the last fragments of my sanity. Since the disastrous non-wedding, Camilla had kept me a prisoner in this gilded cage of a marriage, and revenge had become her only sport. I’d stay up making her late-night detox smoothies, only for her to pour the drink down the sink in front of her friends. Her expression was one of cool disdain. “An amenity bought for ten million? I find the service rather distasteful.” Even when she allowed me into her bed, her last words, as she pulled away, were always cold. “Ten thousand dollars a pop, deducted from your account. Satisfied?” Gathering every ounce of courage, I reached for her sleeve. “The day of the wedding, I actually—” She yanked her arm free, her eyes two chips of frozen glass. “Still making up stories? Is the next one going to be that you’ve got a terminal illness?” “You cursed your own mother with a car crash for money, Jasper. What lie are you incapable of telling?” Her companion, the one with the snide voice, wrapped an arm around her and chuckled. “Cam, even I stopped using that one in middle school.” She grabbed my chin, forcing me to meet her gaze, her words dropping like stones. “Jasper Lowe, is there one single, solitary truth that’s ever passed your lips?” 2 My heart sank into a well of absolute despair. I looked at the massive, unusable number sitting in my banking app, my fingertips cold. I hadn’t touched a single cent of that ten million since my father-in-law deposited it. “I haven’t spent any of it, Camilla,” I explained into the phone, my voice raw and brittle. “Haven’t spent it?” She scoffed. “Jasper Lowe, why did you take it, then? Who are you trying to fool now? The account’s monthly activity is zero because you moved it already, didn’t you?” “You forcefully claimed half of it under the pretense of joint marital assets!” I was trembling. “The remaining five million—” That remaining five million had been frozen by Jonathan Blackwood, making it impossible for me to pay Camilla back. “What, you can’t access it?” Her voice was laced with derision. “Or you just don’t want to? I haven’t forgotten the look on your face when you abandoned me at the altar for cash, Jasper. Now you want to play the martyr, pretending you’re morally above it?” The line went dead, the click of the disconnect jarringly final. I slid down the cold tile wall, collapsing onto the floor. Camilla had been unbelievably stingy post-marriage, barely providing enough for basic living. I had to report every expense over a hundred dollars, subjecting it to the ruthless scrutiny of her secretary. The remaining five million was an astronomical figure to me. I had no idea how I would ever repay it. The phone’s busy signal buzzed for a long time before I finally lowered the hot device. A crushing sense of powerlessness enveloped me. Everyone in the city believed I was the Cinderella story come true—the fortunate Mr. Lowe who had married into the Blackwood dynasty. But no one knew this little songbird in a golden cage wasn’t even allowed to flutter his wings. Camilla had seized all my identification, locking me in this villa. She’d promised she wouldn’t give me another chance to escape. As for money… she allotted me only enough for subsistence, with every dime monitored. Loud, exaggerated gasps of admiration drifted up from the living room below. The news was still broadcasting the show. The brilliant, heart-shaped drone formation dominated the night sky. “Oh my God, Cam is so romantic! I heard she bought him that island as a birthday gift!” “Now that’s true love, isn’t it? Dropping millions just for a movie star’s smile.” “Ugh, I bet the guy upstairs couldn’t even afford the catering for that party, let alone the drone show.” “Of course not. A man who runs off for ten million? What does he have besides a pretty face? He’s not even in the same league as Ryan Foster.” 3 I used to be the subject of a real-life fairy tale. Camilla was the sole heir to Blackwood Industries, worth billions, proud and untouchable. I was just a kid raised by a single mother from a working-class background. We were worlds apart. Yet, this woman, this untouchable queen, had never shown a hint of contempt when she found out I was working late shifts at a convenience store to help my mom. The very next day, she quietly tucked a homemade lunchbox into my backpack, with a note: “Don’t work on an empty stomach.” Later, when my mother needed surgery, Camilla secretly settled every bill. When I found out, I was overwhelmed and speechless. She simply wiped the tears from my face, pressed her forehead against mine, and whispered: “Jasper, you don’t have to carry the world alone anymore. From now on, you have me.” In that moment, the sincerity and tenderness in her eyes made me believe the fairy tale was real. Until the wedding. In my tuxedo, waiting in the groom’s suite, I got the call from the hospital: Mom was gravely injured. My mind went blank. I ran out, frantic, without a word to Camilla, who was already walking down the aisle. When I burst into the hospital, I found my mother sitting up, perfectly fine, and my father-in-law, Jonathan Blackwood, standing there with a grim smile. He shoved a transfer confirmation slip into my hand, his voice like chipped granite. “Ten million. It’s the price for you to disappear. Remember, if you breathe one word of this to Camilla… next time, the accident won’t be a staged one.” I felt like I’d been plunged into a freezing lake. That’s when Camilla, who had come running after me, walked in. She saw me, holding the receipt, standing next to my perfectly healthy mother. The light in her eyes went out. Later, she defied her entire family, dragging me back with a nearly obsessive zeal, though her eyes were now filled only with hatred. “Jasper Lowe, is money really all you love?” I wanted to explain, but Jonathan’s cold threat echoed in my head. I bit my lip until it bled, swallowing every word of explanation, every ounce of my humiliation, along with that ten-million-dollar anchor. But seeing the tabloids—Camilla and the actor Ryan Foster embracing on a private beach—the self-deception finally shattered. The look of utter adoration in her eyes in the photo was identical to the one she’d once reserved for me. My hands trembling, I waited for her to return in the dead of night and grabbed her sleeve. “Camilla…” My voice was a choked whisper. “Let’s not do this, please. Don’t make me live like a joke.” She paused, her eyes slowly descending to my white-knuckled grip, then rising to my face. She looked at me like I was an irrelevant object. “A joke? Jasper, the moment you ran off for ten million at the altar, you became the biggest joke in the city.” She leaned in, her breath cold against my ear. “A commodity with a price tag doesn’t get to negotiate terms with me. Your only value now is to stay right here and pay for your choice.” Since that day, the rumors of Camilla and Ryan had become inescapable. A churning wave of nausea rose in my throat. I stumbled into the bathroom, dry-heaving violently, nothing coming up. The feeling of suffocation was overwhelming. I needed air. I put a hand against the wall and walked toward the front door. My fingers had just brushed the handle when two large, dark-suited bodyguards materialized in front of me. “Sir, Mrs. Blackwood gave strict instructions. You are not to leave the premises while she is away.” I clenched my hands, my voice tight. “I just want to walk in the garden.” The bodyguard’s face was impassive. “Apologies, Sir. Mrs. Blackwood’s order permits no form of exit without her express permission.” 4 I stood frozen in the foyer, watching the sliver of sunlight cut by the doorframe, a profound emptiness consuming me. I remembered how Camilla used to take me everywhere. Under the vast, silent stars of the Southwestern desert, she promised we’d see the world. In the morning mist by the coast, she promised me limitless freedom. Even outside my shabby childhood home, she seriously planned a trip for my mother and me to see the Northern Lights. On our one-year anniversary, Camilla took me on a road trip across the Great Plains. Huddled against me under the endless night sky, she pointed to the horizon and whispered: “Jasper, see how big the world is? You can go anywhere you want. I want you to be my free little prince forever.” But now, she’d trapped me in this villa, swearing she would never let me escape again. I rushed back to the bathroom, another wave of retching, my throat burning, but still nothing. “Uncle Jasper?” A clear voice broke through the panic. Nolan, Camilla’s young nephew, stood at the door, his eyes filled with worry. He was staying for the summer—the only source of warmth in this cold house. “Come with me.” He took my hand and led me through the hallway to the balcony of his room. As the glass door slid open, the night air, mixed with the scent of pine and grass, rushed in. I inhaled greedily, gasping, tears streaming down my face, uncontrolled. Nolan quietly handed me a tissue. “Uncle Jasper, I know what they say… but I don’t believe you’re like that. Is there some kind of mistake between you and Aunt Cam? I’ve seen the photo in her study drawer—the one from the Plains. The way she looked at you… she can’t fake that.” A lump formed in my throat. A teenager understood this simple truth, but Camilla refused to see it. Sometime after midnight, the sound of the front gate opening jolted me awake. A minute later, the unmistakable sounds of drunken laughter, low moans, and whispered exchanges drifted from the master suite next door. It lasted until dawn. The next morning, I went downstairs to find Camilla and Ryan eating breakfast in the sunlit dining room. She was spreading jam on his toast, her lips curled into a gentle smile I hadn’t seen in years. Normally, her “guests” were gone before sunrise. This was the first time she’d kept a man for breakfast. Ryan looked up and saw me, a smug smirk curving his thin lips. “Ah, you must be Mr. Lowe. I’ve heard so much. Did you catch the drone show last night, at home? Pity. It was truly stunning in person.” I ignored him, walking straight to Camilla, and placing the folded divorce papers next to her hand. Ryan faked surprise. “A divorce, Mr. Lowe? But I thought you owed Cam a rather large sum of money?” I looked into Camilla’s deep, emotionless eyes. Every word was deliberate. “I will pay the money back. In whatever way I can.” Camilla slowly set down her knife and fork. After a long pause, she spoke, her voice distant. “Fine. Starting today, I will grant you three hours of unsupervised time outside. Let’s see how you intend to repay the debt.” “But if you fail to repay it, don’t ever dream of freedom.” 5 I started looking for work, but the power of the Blackwood name was absolute. No company dared to hire me. I knew Camilla was trying to break me. I picked up a broom and became a municipal street cleaner. My meager wages were a drop in the ocean compared to the “debt,” but three hours of freedom a day—even sweeping the sidewalk—was better than permanent captivity. Passersby stared, their gazes a mix of shock, contempt, and morbid pleasure. Their whispers followed me like an infection. “Look! It really is Mr. Lowe! Why’s he sweeping the street? Hasn’t he drained Blackwood dry yet?!” “Ugh, ‘Mr. Lowe’ my foot. Just a discarded trophy husband. That’s what you get for betraying Cam.” “Ran off for ten million, now he’s paying the price. Good for him!” “Seriously, he can’t even hold a candle to Ryan Foster.” I kept my head down, my spine straight, my nails digging into the broom handle. It doesn’t matter. At least the air out here was moving. Just then, the screech of an engine tore through the air. I looked up just as a bright blue McLaren jumped the curb onto the sidewalk. CRASH—! The car slammed into me, knocking me hard to the ground. A blinding pain shot up my right leg, and the broom clattered away. I gasped, a faint, worrying ache blooming in my abdomen. Ryan stumbled out of the car, reeking of alcohol. Perhaps because I was wearing a generic uniform, he didn’t immediately recognize me. “Watch where you’re going, garbage man! Trying to scam me, are you? Targeting my car?” His voice was grating. I gritted my teeth, trying to push myself up. “You… you drove onto the sidewalk.” “Bullshit!” He spat, and three or four stylishly dressed friends spilled out of the car, immediately crowding around and joining the attack. “Foster, don’t waste your breath on a street rat. He’s clearly a professional fraud artist!” “Desperate for cash, huh? Trying to pull a big one?” The insults rained down like dirty water. “You hit me. You have to take responsibility,” I managed. Ryan threw his head back, laughing hysterically. “Responsibility? Do you know who my wife is? You think you can blackmail me?” He pulled out his phone, his voice instantly turning into a pathetic whine. “Baby—! Come quick! Some crazy man deliberately hit my car and is yelling at me! It’s on my usual street, I’m so scared…” Camilla arrived quickly. I remembered months ago when I’d had a fever so high I was barely conscious. I’d managed to call her, but all I got was a clinical busy signal, followed by the sound of her and another man in the room next door later that night. Her gaze landed first on Ryan. She rushed to him, checking him for injuries. “Are you alright?” she asked, her voice tight with a concern I hadn’t heard in ages. Only then did she turn her attention to me—battered, bruised, and sitting in the dirt. Her eyes were calm, devoid of expression, as if looking at a piece of roadside trash. “What happened?” Her tone was coolly distant. “He intentionally walked into my car, then demanded money!” Ryan nestled into her embrace. I bit my lip, refusing to speak, instead pointing to my bleeding arm and scraped knees, and then to the clearly illegal position of the sports car. Her gaze paused on my wounds for a fraction of a second, so quickly I thought I imagined it. “Jasper Lowe, apologize.” 6 Ryan recognized me then, his pupils shrinking, quickly replaced by a smug grin. “He hit me!” I refused. “I said, apologize.” Her voice deepened, and the air around us immediately solidified. “I won’t!” Camilla seemed momentarily enraged, then a cold smile touched her lips. She took two steps forward, leaned down, and spoke one word at a time. “You want a divorce, don’t you?” My heart stopped. She straightened up, her voice ringing clearly across the shocked onlookers. “Apologize to Ryan and his friends. Three deep bows, head to the pavement, for each of them. Do that, and I’ll sign the papers immediately.” The world went silent. She was using the one thing I desperately wanted to crush the last vestige of my dignity. The memory of the disconnected fever-call screamed in my ears. She wasn’t going to show me mercy. She hadn’t for a long time. I closed my eyes, inhaling the freezing air. When I opened them, only a dead emptiness remained. I didn’t look at anyone. I braced my hands against the filthy asphalt, dragging my injured leg, and slowly, deliberately, bent my spine. The moment my forehead touched the rough pavement, a fresh wave of jeers and whistles erupted around me. The first bow: for the betrayal purchased by ten million dollars. The second bow: for my love and dignity ground into the dust. The third bow: for all the pathetic, remaining illusions I held onto. Each forced bend was like a thousand-pound hammer striking my back. When the third bow was complete, I stayed there, forehead pressed to the ground, tears silently mixing with the dirt and blood. “That’s enough,” she said, two frigid words. She didn’t spare me another glance, turning to wrap an arm around Ryan. Her tone softened instantly. “Feel better now, darling? Let’s go.” Before leaving, Ryan exchanged a meaningful glance with his friends. I was still kneeling, the dust and blood a sticky mask on my face. My stomach was cramping violently, but my mind felt only the desolate cold of the Arctic. Suddenly, several shadows, reeking of stale alcohol and cheap cologne, loomed over me. It was Ryan’s group of “friends.” “Lowe, that was a good thump,” the woman with the gold chain slurred, squatting down. “Camilla doesn’t want you anymore. How about us girls take care of you?” Another, with a cheap peroxide perm, leaned close. “Want to go to the hospital? We can take you. But you’ll have to show us how grateful you are…” They exchanged vulgar smiles, dragging me toward a dark, secluded alley, surrounding me completely, blocking out the last of the light. Late that night, Camilla’s face was chalk-white as she turned on the house manager. “It’s hours past his three-hour limit! Where is he? What kind of job are you people doing?” The manager lowered his head. “We… we assumed, since you agreed to sign the divorce papers, that you no longer required us to restrict Mr. Lowe’s movements…” “You fool!” She violently slammed her wine glass down. Before she could erupt, her phone buzzed with a news alert. The headline was stark: “Municipal Worker Found Dead After Violent Assault at 3:28 AM…”